Hello, Blackbird
by TinkerbellxO
Summary: How could Melvin Purvis, FBI agent, tell the world that John Dillinger was still alive? He couldn't. Instead he went after him in secret and along the way John met his forever Blackbird, a woman from Boston with a history as dark as his own.
1. The End is Only the Beginning

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**Please read and review.**

**Thanks!**

**Tinkerbellxo**

**A/N: A very happy 47****th**** birthday to the star of the film and of this story, Johnny Depp! **

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_**Prologue**_

**_The End is Only the Beginning_**

_Melvin Purvis spotted him standing across the street, a sly smile on his handsome face as the reporters and the rest of the media hubbub swarmed the area where a man assumed to be John Dillinger supposedly lay dead. They all thought it had only taken three gun shots to take down the man who had been invincible._

_The man teased him, taking off his straw fedora and tipping it to him. It would have been an act of respect but Purvis knew better. He was taunting him and he knew that Purvis could do nothing about it. _

_A rather large woman with a plumed hat stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the crowd._

"_What is going on, sir?" she asked with a strong accent, from where he couldn't place._

_Purvis took the cigar out of his mouth, the signal to take down Dillinger. It had tasted so good, so sweet just a few moments ago and now it was bitter, almost sour._

"_Nothing to worry yourself about ma'am," he said with a charming smile and she hurried along._

_Purvis looked back out at the crowd, the flares and the flashes of light from the cameras blinding him. Quickly his eyes adjusted to find the man that had been mocking him had disappeared. Had he imagined it? One second Purvis had seen him, alive and well and the next he was gone. _

_The FBI agent took his hat off and ran a hand over his face, wiping his sweaty brow. No, he had seen the chocolate brown eyes peeking out from behind the man's trademark dark sunglasses, despite the 11 o'clock hour. He had seen that crooked grin. He would've sworn it in front of a judge on the Holy Bible. _

"_Shit," was all that came out but there was so much more to say._

_How could he go back to the bureau a failure? _

_How could he tell them what he knew? _

_How could he tell the world that the FBI, the best trained police force in the world had killed an innocent man?_

_And most importantly, how could he tell them that John Dillinger, Public Enemy Number One, was still alive?_

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**A/N:****Part of this story will be the goose chase between Dillinger and Purvis until Purvis' retirement in 1936 which is historically accurate. Most of it will be a romance. No, the romance will not involve Billie. Although I believe that they are perfect for each other cinematically and historically, she went on with her life after he died. So there will be a lot of history involved and everything I write will be accurate (to my knowledge) when it comes to Billie's history and world history. Anything involving Dillinger including how he lived and a poor schmuck died in his place (however, there are a lot of theories that Dillinger was never killed and had plastic surgery before starting a new life but I won't be playing into that) and any chaos I may create after his supposed death date is from my own imagination. **

**I just wanted to prepare everyone for the wild ride ahead. Also, the chapters will be much longer, this is just the prologue.**

**Thanks for reading and please, please, PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Tinkerbellxo**


	2. Anna Sage

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**Please read and review.**

**Thanks!**

**Tinkerbellxo**

**A/N: Italics represent a flash back.**

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**Chapter One**

**Anna Sage**

She sat quietly at the kitchen table counting the wad of bills in her hand, a sly smile across her face. After she finished, she wrapped a rubber band around it and walked over to the counter to the bread box. She opened the roll top and popped out a false backing, then stuffed the bills in the secret compartment and replaced the board and the top. She walked back over to the table and exhaled loudly as she retook her seat.

In the end it had been worth it, though the means had made her question if she had made the right decision. She knew helping Johnny out was the right thing to do, but was it up to her to get involved? With the proper monetary persuasion from him she had decided that yes, it was up to her to get involved. After all, if she didn't, someone else would benefit from Johnny's generous offer and she needed it more than anyone.

She had been nervous that they would deport her back to Romania once they had discovered they had shot the wrong guy. But Johnny had been right. He said that the FBI was so desperate to gain the public's trust that they would keep their word for fear of suspicion.

What he hadn't anticipated was the days of questioning that she would have to endure. Immediately following the operation, she had been seized and thrown into the back of one of the inconspicuous black cars with none other than Melvin Purvis in the driver's seat.

As they drove to the Chicago Police station, he began his battalion of accusations and inquiries.

"_Where is Dillinger?" He asked her angrily._

_She could still smell the smoke from the cigar on his clothes and it made her feel ill, like she couldn't breathe._

"_He took off," she replied, "half way through the movie he decided leave. Didn't like it or something."_

"_Why did you not come out to alert me?"_

"_I thought he may come back, he wasn't going to leave us without a ride home after all," she replied._

"_And who was the man that we shot? How did he get involved with this?" he asked, not really believing anything she had said._

"_I only knew him as Daniel Short, they called him Shorty but I don't think that's his real name."_

"_And why was he walking with you and Miss Polly?" _

_This had been the question Anna had been dreading._

"_He was a customer of mine and was interested in a good time so he hooked onto us as we walked out of the theater, asked me to take him back to the house to see the girls. I tried to tell him another time but he wouldn't go away," she replied slowly._

_Purvis noticed she sounded just a tad too rehearsed but he had heard of Daniel Short. He was a small time criminal, and never was very good at it. He had held up a gas station and been put away for a few years. And he was known for his persistence. But it was just too coincidental that he looked so much like Dillinger._

"_Do you know where John Dillinger is now?"_

"_Well if he took the car, then I'd assume he is back at the house," she began, "He could have returned to the theater though, to pick us up."_

_Both viable options and it sounded innocent enough. But Purvis had an idea that Miss Sage knew more than she was giving him and he needed that information._

_He kept her locked up in the Chicago Police Department jail under the suspicion of tax evasion. It was a bogus charge since everyone knew what Anna Sage did and that was not a business that necessarily paid taxes. However no one dared question Melvin Purvis lest they want to end up in the cell next to the Madame. _

_He kept her there for five days and questioned her extensively every morning, afternoon and evening. The questions were always the same, just worded differently, as if he thought he could get new information by asking something another way. But nothing came from his efforts. _

_Finally he let her go and paid her as promised, but not as much as she had been told. She had yet to find out if he planned on helping her with the deportation board but had a feeling that he was too proud to admit he had been outsmarted. _

The phone rang, interrupting her review of the past few days and Polly walked out of her room and answered it.

"Hello?" she waited, "she's right here, just one moment please."

Polly put her hand up to the receiver to block any sound and whispered, "It's Agent Purvis."

Anna all but knocked the chair down in her rush to grab the phone from Polly.

"Yes Agent Purvis?"

She listened intently, he knew how to beat around the bush and at this point she needed him to give her the low down. Was she being sent back to Romania or wasn't she?

Finally she heard the words she had been hoping for but she was so in shock, she could only manage a meek, "thank you."

She hung up the phone and turned to Polly, a glassy look in her eyes.

"What did that g-man want?" she asked.

"I have a year to get American citizenship and I can stay in the country," she replied, still shocked from her good luck.

Johnny had been right. Now she just hoped he wouldn't do anything foolish with his newfound freedom.

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**A/N: So for the next few chapters I'm just going to tie up a few loose ends and then our story will really begin (not that John Dillinger being alive isn't a great start to any story ;-)). There will be a few characters that won't show up until later in the story and their plots will conclude there. **

**Thanks to linalove, lilyiri and Bella-Rose for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?**

**Tinkerbellxo**


	3. Winstead and Purvis

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**Please read and review.**

**Thanks!**

**Tinkerbellxo**

**A/N: There are a few 1930's slang terms that I translate directly after the phrase in parentheses and italics, FYI.**

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**Chapter Two**

**Winstead and Purvis**

Charles Winstead took a long drag from his hand-rolled snipe _(cigarette)._

How could he have shot the wrong man? How could he have failed? He'd never failed a mission. And he had been the one to visit the Frechette girl. She was just a moll _(a gangster's girlfriend)_, but he had felt sorry for her.

All he had actually heard when he knelt down next to the man that turned out not to be John Dillinger was a final grunt of pain. But at the time he didn't know it wasn't Dillinger and he wanted to console the girl. It wasn't her fault she had fallen for the wrong kind of man. The FBI had been tapping her horn (phone) for months so he had known about Dillinger's pet name for her, _Blackbird._ To give her some sort of closure he had created those famous last words, "bye bye, Blackbird."

Now he felt like a fool. Whether she had been in on it or not he didn't know, but he had a feeling she would eventually find out the truth. And when she did she'd laugh at their stupidity, their colossal mistake.

"Winstead?" Agent Purvis's stern tone brought him back to the present, away from the big house _(jail)_ and away from the mourning Billie Frechette.

Winstead let the smoke out in a thin stream, forming an almost perfect circle, "What are you going to do?"

"We've already announced to the papers that Dillinger is dead. We'll be the laughing stock of the country if we all of a sudden rescind our declaration and they find out we've killed an innocent man."

"He wasn't exactly innocent, sir," Winstead replied.

And he was right. Daniel Short had been a small-time mobster, really no more than a glorified thief. But both knew that the public wouldn't care about that. The only thing that would matter was the FBI had killed the wrong man. The press would have a field day.

After several moments of contemplation, Purvis decided what course of action they would take.

"We keep this between the two of us. We stay with the story, Dillinger is dead. No one will miss Shorty. He had no family and even those he did business with considered him a crumb _(a loser)_. We lie low for a few months. The issue will stop hitting the papers and Dillinger will think he's got us fooled. He'll be lulled into a false sense of security."

"Then," Purvis's hand landed hard on the table in front of him, "we go after him."

"What will we do once we find him?" Winstead asked.

"If he runs, we have no choice but to treat it like Pretty Boy Floyd," he winked at the other man, "if you catch my drift."

"If he comes willingly?"

Purvis paused and looked out the diner's grimy window. It was really a gin mill _(place that sold liquor illegally) _on the bad side of town. They'd decided on the meeting place because anyone there had too much to hide to go running to the cops. The two G-men knew that their secret would be safe.

"He won't."

"I've been doing some research on a few small robberies across the country and I've noticed a pattern, sir. Small bank jobs very similar to what John Dillinger would pull but no names have been attached to them. And they all point to one place."

"Good, good. We'll let him stew for a while. If he feels he's safe there he'll probably stay. Where do the crimes lead to, Winstead?"

The older man leaned back in his seat, a sly smile on his face.

"Boston."

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**A/N: I know, another short chapter. But I promise it's only because I'm setting this story up. It needed a lot of holes filled before I could really begin the story and introduce our OC (which, BTW, is happening in the next chapter!). Thanks to linalove, lilyiri and Bella-Rose for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?**

**Tinkerbellxo**


	4. The Girl on the Front Page

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**Please read and review.**

**Thanks!**

**Tinkerbellxo**

**A/N: There is maybe one or two terms used in the 30s that are translated in parentheses directly after the terms.**

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**Chapter Three**

**The Girl on the Front Page**

Her icy blue eyes stared up at him from the front page of the morning edition. How did he know they were blue from the black and white photo? He didn't really, it just fit her face.

CHILD BRIDE MURDERS BANKING HEIR HUSBAND

. . . the headline read. How the papers loved a scandal. According to the story that followed, the orphaned Merle Mercier was married off to a Mr. Harry Young, son of Roy Young, the president of the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston, when she was just thirteen years old. They lived "happily" as man and wife for four years. That was until a week ago when she was found hovering over his body with a large kitchen knife in her hand, her blue dress drenched in his blood.

They had no doubt that she had killed the man. She had confessed to it willingly. But where her account and their accusations parted was the allegation of self-defense:

She claimed he abused her and that on the night of the incident, he attempted to kill her like she said he had tried to do several times during their marriage.

His family said that their beloved son and brother was not capable of such heinous behavior.

Who to believe: The 17 year old orphan or one of the most powerful families in Boston? There was only one way to find out.

He took a quick look at his watch. Quarter to ten. If he hurried he could make it to the pre-trial where they would outline the charges against Mrs. Merle Young. He folded the paper in half and then shoved it in his back pocket. Adjusting his straw fedora atop his head, he made his way down Tremont Street, only stopping to avoid the coppers (police officers) who littered the busy street. They paid him no notice but he knew he'd played it too close to the vest before.

And then he smirked. Here he was dodging simple police men when he was planning to walk into the John Adams Courthouse and sit in on the trial for what was already being deemed "the crime of the century." Well he never claimed to play it safe. He entered the old-fashioned building easily and asked a rather pretty young woman at the front desk where he could find the Mercier/Young trial. She directed him to the main courtroom and he made his way, entering it the moment the proceedings had begun. Of course it was chocked full of men in expensive looking suits, sweat dripping from their brows on this warm August morning.

He did miss his nice clothing. He had avoided his usual clothiers for fear they would recognize him and he didn't need that. Arriving in Boston just yesterday, he had yet to visit the nicer shops but he knew that once he had satisfied his curiosity with this case he would hit the first haberdashery he found.

Truthfully he wasn't even sure why he was here; what had brought him to this place. It wasn't like this involved him. He was just a curious character. It had always been a weakness of his, that and pretty women. And this was definitely a curious case involving a pretty woman, well, pretty young woman.

And not only was she pretty, there was just something about that girl on the front page. The look on her face was one of a lost soul. He thought that maybe she needed someone to find her. Of course he had gone down that route before. Billie hadn't been a lost soul but she was definitely someone who needed finding. If only he could be with her now. He had promised to come for her, to keep her safe. And he had failed her. And now she didn't even know he was still alive.

He had heard that she was still in jail and he knew that was the last place he should head. The first time he had called her to tell her he was coming for her she had told him not to, that it was too dangerous. He had ignored her of course and look where that had landed him: The whole world thought him dead.

He knew that she would kill him if he took the risk. No, he would bide his time and wait. Her crime was merely being involved with him. They had nothing really on her. He knew that she'd serve a year, maybe two and then they'd let her out. And when they did, he'd be there at the front gate . . . or as close to it as possible. And he'd sweep her off her feet and they'd escape to Rio, or maybe to France. Her daddy was French, she'd like it there.

But until that day he'd have to lay low. He had already made a name for himself in Illinois and Indiana. Chicago had been his love until they shipped him off and despite what he thought in the beginning Indiana had welcomed him with open arms. There were two other big towns where he knew he could blend in and do some honest bank-robbing without grabbing too much attention. That was New York City and Boston. He had hit a few banks in New York and while it was a nice town, it was too crazy. Too much theater and too few dance halls. Boston was chocked full of dance halls and it also housed some of the oldest and richest banks in the country. And though he had only been there a day, he knew he could get used to a town like Boston.

Luckily the small bank jobs he had pulled along his way and the larger ones in New York City had provided him the means to rent a nice big apartment right on Beacon Hill. The owner had been shocked when he had showed up, took a cursory glance around the place and handed the landlord the cash to cover a full year of rent and utilities all within ten minutes. He planned on bringing Billie back there for a while and when the papers had gotten bored with the story of her release, the two of them would make their exit and leave the American Dream in the dust.

His thought process was interrupted not by the bailiff's bark or the smack of the gavel to bring the court to attention, but rather those icy blue eyes he had seen on the front page of the newspaper. He was right. They did fit her face that was framed by a chin length bob. Despite spending the past week in jail, her black hair shined in the harsh light of the courtroom, it was almost purple and each curl was defined into a perfect corkscrew. Her lips were painted a pretty red and her somewhat gaunt cheeks were a youthful pink against her pale skin. They had dressed her in a white pinafore with white stockings and conservative black and white Mary Janes. Amongst her locks was a small pair of pearl earrings. She looked like the poster girl for some new hair product or perfume. But this idyllic portrait was quickly soured by the appearance of thick iron cuffs and a heavy chain connecting her two wrists.

He had seen this trick before – dress the accused like an angel and paint a picture of absolute innocence. Play her up as the helpless victim, that's what lawyers did best. But when she walked over to the defense bench she greeted no attorney. Instead she stood alone.

_Could she really be representing herself? _He thought.

That's certainly what it looked like. The proceedings began and she was charged with first-degree murder, the worst offense possible. She didn't even fight it; all she did was enter the plea of "Not Guilty." A trial date was set.

They began to lead her out when she looked over to the corner and caught his eye. Openly she stared him, the cold hue of her youthful eyes chilling him to the bone. There was a deep sadness there behind her steely façade. He felt himself shake, like someone had just walked over his grave. She turned away and was led out the door to her cell in the basement of the courthouse.

He felt somewhat sick from what he had just witnessed. Her face had barely changed at all during the proceedings, like she wasn't aware of what was going on or where she was. Something inside of him said it was not right. The big time attorney the Young family had hired shook hands with Mr. Young and his wife who had been crying into a white laced handkerchief during the short spectacle. Mr. Young had a smug look on his face, like he knew all the long that the accused wouldn't put up a fight.

There was nothing left for him to do but leave the courtroom. Not like he could help the mysterious girl with the pretty blue eyes now anyways. She was doomed, that was obvious. And if there was one thing Johnny knew, it was to never pick a fight that couldn't be won.

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**A/N: Roy Young was actually the president of the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston during 1934, the year my story begins. However Harry Young, the murdered son, is my own creation as well as my O/C, Merle (pronounced M-air-le).**

**Thanks to linalove, lilyiri and xBelekinax for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?**

**Tinkerbellxo**


	5. Déjà vu

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**Please read and review.**

**Thanks!**

**Tinkerbellxo**

**A/N: There is one 30s term below in italics translated directly after it, FYI.**

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**Chapter Four**

**___Déjà vu_**

Johnny had never been one to have nightmares. Even when he was a kid, when his Daddy used to beat him, he very rarely dreamed of anything and that continued into adulthood. That was until the night the FBI "killed" him. Since then he had had the exact same nightmare. He would dream that he was outside the Biograph Theater, the lights spelling out "Manhattan Melodrama" in a dirty, musty yellow.

Just like that fateful night, he was standing next to a building across the street, hidden in the shadows. He watched as Purvis lit his cigar, obviously the signal to move in. He watched as Winstead, Hurt and Hollis advanced upon the poor unsuspecting dummy they thought to be him. He almost felt bad for the _Joe _(average guy) but he knew that if he left Billie alone in this world he would never forgive himself. He watched as they shot the man through, but instead of falling down dead to the ground like what actually happened that night, he turned around quickly. The person with blood dripping down their front was no longer Daniel Short. He stared into those beautiful blue eyes and saw sadness and abandonment.

He heard that complicated accent of hers as she whispered, "Why Johnny?"

His Billie would then bring her hand up to her eyes, it was covered in blood. Those eyes would roll back into her head and she would collapse to the ground. He tried to run to her but every night was the same. He was rooted to the spot by some unseen magnetism.

It had haunted him so much that after the first week, he tried to avoid sleeping through the night and just taking short naps as he hopped from train to train, town to town. After a while though he knew he had to give in. He couldn't go on living like this. So he decided to deal with the nightmare. Night after night he had to relive the same pain and anguish of watching the love of his life perish in his place. It was torture to say the least. But his dream the night after witnessing the Young girl's pre-trial was different.

He watched the cigar light, the FBI advance, Short get shot through. But when Short turned around he didn't turn into Billie. He didn't see his love bleeding. It was no longer Billie dying. It was that girl, Merle. It was her icy blue eyes that he stared into. She was bleeding, she was dying. Despite the fact that he had never spoken to the girl in his life he felt an overwhelming need to run to her, to save her. And unlike other nights, the magnet no longer held control over his body. His feet lifted easily from the ground and he ran to her, not caring who saw him or what might happen. But just as he crouched down to pick up her seemingly lifeless body he awoke to find himself in his new apartment, in his bed, a thin veil of cold sweat covering his body.

He sat up and pulled the sheets around him. A breeze drifted in through the window giving him a chill. Eyes wide he searched his soul, trying to figure out what it all meant.

_I have to save her, _he thought to himself.

He settled back into bed, resolute that first thing the next morning he would secure the services of the best lawyer in Boston.

If he couldn't save Billie, he was going to save Merle.

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**A/N: So what do you guys think? Are my chapters too short? With my other stories they run three to four thousand but I wanted to try something different with this one. Please let me know your thoughts!**

**Thanks to linalove, filmgirl13 and xBelekinax for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?**

**Tinkerbellxo**


	6. Meeting the Blackbird

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**Please read and review.**

**Thanks!**

**Tinkerbellxo**

**A/N: There are a few 30s term below in italics translated directly after it. Also, names or words with asterisks after them have an explanation in the author's note at the end.**

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**Chapter Five**

**Meeting the Blackbird**

Johnny walked swiftly down the street, a skip to his step and lightness in his heart. He felt useful again. He had a purpose and that was helping this dame in distress. He had made several contacts earlier in the morning with prestigious law firms and finally settled on Ropes, Gray, Boyden & Perkins*. It had been around since 1865 and was well-known for getting even the most notorious criminals out of jail. He only hoped that Mr. Gray could work his magic for Mrs. Merle Young.

He had made an appointment with Mr. Gray to meet him at 2 p.m. in the basement jail of the John Adams court house, where Mrs. Young was being held until her trial. He had put on his brand new suit and fedora that he had bought yesterday after the pre-trail (it felt good to be back in quality clothing again) just for the occasion. He arrived at the Court House 15 minutes early but this was to his advantage. He wanted to introduce himself to the girl, get to know her.

He signed into the small jail using his newest alias, Jack Lawrence*, and waited in the visiting room nervously for her to be brought out from her cell. When he heard footsteps behind him he turned around and was greeted by the fragile looking Merle Young, still clamped in thick handcuffs. Her small frame was even more accentuated by the tall, red-headed man dressed in a very expensive suit standing next to her.

"Who are you?" she asked him quietly, her voice sounded like twinkling bells but her eyes were narrowed, like a cat who was ready to pounce.

"Name's Jack Lawrence, Ma'am," he took his hat off quickly realizing he had failed to do so when he entered the building.

"It's no longer ma'am," she said harshly, taking him off guard.

"I apologize, Miss," he paused.

"Mercier," she started, "I have taken back my maiden name."

He just nodded at her, not quite sure what to say.

The man standing defensively next to her leaned forward and extended his hand, "The name's Wallace, Frankie Wallace."

Johnny shook his hand, instantly recognizing the name of the son and probable heir to the leader of the Gustin Gang.* He was also impressed that Mr. Wallace would feel free enough to announce his name in the visiting room of the jail. He was either really brave or really stupid. Or he had a lot of money and Johnny figured that was probably the answer.

Everyone had their price after all. He had learned that earlier with Mr. Gray whose secretary claimed he was too busy to take on the case. Johnny had dropped some figures and he had received a curt, "hold one moment please." There was some rustling of papers and a muffled conversation on the other end of the phone. When she picked it back up Mr. Gray suddenly had a wide open schedule and would be glad to meet with him immediately.

"It's an honor to meet you Mr. Wallace. I've heard some impressive things about your father and his well, _business_," there was an emphasis to that last word.

"My father died three years ago, killed by those filthy _Greasers_ (Italians)," was all Frankie replied.

"I am sorry for your loss," Johnny now knew that Frankie Wallace was the newest leader of the Gustin Gang.

Frankie nodded, "what is it you want with my little cousin?"

Johnny had to hide his shock. So the former wife to the heir of the biggest banking empire in Boston was also heir to one of Boston's wealthiest and best organized gangs? It was almost like a script from a moving picture.

"I noticed that your cousin has not obtained legal counsel for her trial. I have secured the services of a top-notch attorney and I wanted to offer it to Ms. Mercier as a sort of gift, from one outlaw to another," he smiled mischievously.

"And what has made you an outlaw," Merle paused, "_Mr. Lawrence?"_

How she said his name it made him suspect that she knew he was using an alias but he shrugged it off.

"Let's just say I've had my own dealings with the law and I've always learned you get a better deal with someone standing at your side when judgment day comes," and he winked at her.

Unlike other girls, she didn't blush; she didn't even acknowledge his flirtatious nature. She just smirked.

"Thank you for your concern, _Mr. Lawrence, _but my cousin has already secured a lawyer for my case," she replied.

"And yet I didn't see him at your pre-trial."

The two cousins looked at each other, communicating with their identical icy blue eyes.

"I've just recently reconnected with my mother's family since the beginning of this ordeal and it was not in time for that fiasco," she answered smartly but Johnny was not fooled.

"In other words, you wanted to look like the innocent, helpless young woman who was too poor to hire herself a decent attorney and go it alone against the big bad banker," he paused and flashed a smile, "Am I right?"

Merle didn't let his words fluster her, but her tone became dangerous and deep, a contradiction to her sweet appearance.

"What that bastard of a husband did to me every day and night for four years was torture. It almost killed me. I acted out of self defense and I . . . am . . . innocent," she enunciated those three last words with painful clarity.

"Okay little lady, you're talking too much," Frankie said in a soothing voice, afraid she was about to blow her top.

"Sorry I'm late!" Johnny heard someone call out from in back of him and he turned to see who he suspected to be Mr. Gray. He was a short man, only about 5'3" and he had the hair color to match his name. It was thick on the sides, showing at one time he could have been quite handsome but now the top was thinning out and he had combed it over to hide the growing bald spot. His face and hands were covered in age spots. He wore a grey suit and carried a fine black leather briefcase.

"Mr. Lawrence?" he asked with his hand held out in greeting.

Johnny shook it, "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Gray."

Mr. Gray then turned to look at Merle, "And you need no introduction. I've read all about your case, Mrs. Young – "

"It's Miss Mercier now," Johnny interrupted.

"Uh, oh pardon, Miss Mercier," Mr. Gray corrected, "and I think I know exactly how to help you out of this predicament."

"Well I appreciate you taking the time to come down here Mr. Gray, but I am afraid that –"

She was interrupted by her cousin grabbing her arm and pulling her over to the far corner of the room.

"Merle, if you've got half a brain you will let this _Joe_ (average guy) represent you," he said simply.

"But I've already met your guy and you said he's good," she replied.

"My guy's good," he pointed over at Gray, "this guy is the best. If anyone can get you off, it's him."

She looked over at the now confused Mr. Gray and a smug looking "Mr. Lawrence."

"I can't accept such a gesture from a complete stranger! We don't know what he might want in return. Why don't you pay Mr. Gray and we'll get this Lawrence fellow out of here."

Frankie shook his head, "No way. I tried getting Mr. Gray's office and I was told he was booked. Whoever this Lawrence _cat _(guy, also a swing lover but not in this context) is he's got serious money; enough to drag the best lawyer in Boston away from whatever else he was doing to take your case. I don't even have that much money. And don't worry, I plan on keeping Mr. Lawrence very close."

She crossed her arms in front of her tightly, partly from the chill she got wearing her thin regulation pinafore and partly in frustration. She heard the disheartening clang of the handcuffs slapping up against her. She took a few deep breaths and uncrossed her arms. She put a smile on her face and glided back over to where the two other men stood waiting.

"Mr. Gray, I would be honored if you would represent me in this case," her eyes twinkled warmly but Johnny could see right through her.

She was only doing this because she had too. She was a girl who liked to make her own way and didn't appreciate it when others tried to take care of her. It reminded him of Billie.

"And of course, thank you Mr. Lawrence for your generosity. I hope someday to repay you," she looked at him and instantly recognized him from that day at the court, but she had seen that face even before then. Failing to place where, she took Mr. Gray's arm gently and graciously led him over to a metal table with cold bench seats. She sat with a flourish. It was as if she was a hostess, welcoming her guests to tea. Mr. Gray jumped right into interrogating her and she answered all the man's questions with a sad smile on her face. She was a victim of the system, Johnny knew it and so did she. And she knew she had to act like the victim she was if she wanted to get off the hook. But she didn't have to like it.

Frankie walked over to Johnny, "Sir, how can my family thank you for such a kind act?"

Johnny knew that what Frankie said wasn't just out of gratitude, but also suspicion. How could a man they had never heard of before have so much money and power?

Johnny just smiled, "It's not necessary."

"Oh, but I insist," Frankie replied, his mind searching for a reason to keep this man in his company, "do you like to gamble Mr. Lawrence?"

Johnny eyed the man, "On occasion I have enjoyed a friendly card game or two."

"My friends and I are having a little gathering tomorrow night at this place we know on St. James Avenue, near Copley Square. I'd love for you to come."

"I will be there," Johnny replied.

"Good, say 10 o'clock?"

"Perfect," he replied.

Frankie walked over to the table and put his hands down on his cousin's shoulders.

"And since we don't have to pay for a lawyer, I can post bail and maybe little Merle can join us?"

"I'd love to," she replied looking at her cousin then to Johnny.

"And maybe you'd even grace us with a song?" Frankie continued and Merle blushed. For the first time she looked like the young woman she was and not some hardened, bitter _egg _(a crude person).

"You sing?" Johnny asked the girl.

"Well Merle here is our little entertainer. Sings just like a blackbird," Frankie said and he leaned closer towards her.

Johnny all of a sudden felt ill at ease hearing her called that. Only his Billie was called that.

Frankie repeated, looking straight at Johnny, "Yessiree, she's our little blackbird."

* * *

**History Notes:**

***Ropes, Gray, Boyden & Perkins: A real law firm that started in Boston in 1865. It went through several name changes but in 1934, the year this story takes place, it was Ropes, Gray, Boyden & Perkins.**

***Jack Lawrence: During his time in Chicago, John Dillinger sometimes went by the alias of "Jimmy Lawrence." I just took that last name and a nick name for John, "Jack," and put it together.**

***Gustin Gang – the Gustin Gang was an Irish gang in Boston. Frank Wallace was the leader until 1931 when he was killed in an ambush planned by the Italian mob in the area. I couldn't find out if he had a son but being historically accurate I knew Frank Wallace couldn't be involved and so I invented Frankie Wallace.**

**A/N: A longer chapter, I know, but I couldn't break this up into smaller bits and I'm afraid that with the introduction of Merle, our Blackbird, the chapters are only going to get to linalove, filmgirl13 and xBelekinax for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?**

**Tinkerbellxo**


	7. Sing you Sinners

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**Please read and review.**

**Thanks!**

**Tinkerbellxo**

**A/N: Sorry it's been so long! I am back at school and they are piling on the are a few 30s term below in italics translated directly after it. Also, names or words with asterisks after them have an explanation in the author's note at the end.****

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**

Chapter Six

**Sing you Sinners**

Johnny looked like he had walked out of a moving picture. He was _togged to the bricks _(all dressed up). His wingtip shoes were so shiny he could see his reflection off the top. His black, pinstripe pants fell just to the ankle and the pleats were straight lines down the front of both legs. He wore a crisp white shirt, a black silk tie and his pinstripe suit coat. He tucked a white silk handkerchief into the breast pocket and dropped a borsalino*wide-brimmed hat atop his head.

It was a warm summer night, unusually warm for late August, but he knew his straw fedora and trousers weren't appropriate for the occasion. So when he stepped out into the steamy heat he removed his jacket and slung it over one arm. He considered walking to the Park Street trolley but figured it was in the other direction from Copley Square and would only end up tacking time on to his trip. And with such a pleasant evening, taking a cab would be a waste of money. So he decided to walk, rehearsing all the while his new life story just in case anyone asked.

He arrived in Copley Square fifteen minutes later and found St. James Avenue shortly after that. The street was littered with _grifters _(con men), _Joes _(average guys) and their _dames _(girls). He made his way amongst them to where he knew he was supposed to be. There was no sign outside to distinguish it from any other building on the block, but the music coming from under the door was unmistakable. He donned his jacket and knocked on it three times. The door opened to reveal a short, skinny little fellow in a tux, a _snipe _(cigarette) hanging from his lips.

He arched an eyebrow at Johnny, "ya?"

"I'm here to see Frankie, Frankie Wallace," he replied confidently as he took of his hat.

"Who's askin' for 'im?" the little man asked.

"Jack Lawrence."

"Wait heah," he said in a thick Boston accent and closed the door in Johnny's face.

A minute later the door reopened and without a word, the short man ushered Johnny into a small ballroom and over to a table where his host sat.

"Ah! Mr. Lawrence," Frankie stood to greet him, "welcome to our little gathering."

Johnny looked around him to see at least a hundred men and women drinking, dancing and gambling the night away. If this was a "little gathering," he wondered what a big party would be for the Wallace family. But he covered his discomfort with a smile and shook the other man's hand.

"It's Jack, and thank you for inviting me," Johnny replied.

"Well Jack ol' boy, Let me introduce you to a few people here," Frankie clapped a hand on Johnny's back and led him around his table.

"This here is Bill Dwyer*, an uncle of mine and in from New York, Danny O'Leary from Philly*, and Danny Walsh up from Providence* though officially he goes by Tommy Donalds at the moment," Frankie winked at Johnny, giving him the cue to keep this all "hush hush."

"It's a pleasure gentleman," he nodded to the table. He knew the reputations of each man very well and counted his lucky stars he had never crossed them as John Dillinger.

"And do we have the pleasure of receiving Miss Mercier's company tonight?"

The three other men looked at each other with knowing looks but Frankie ignored them, "Why our girl is getting ready to go up and entertain us all as we speak."

As if that was a cue, the band leader approached the microphone, "Ladies and Gentlemen, you've read about her in the papers, seen her name in the headlines, but tonight she is here to perform for your viewing pleasure. Please welcome to the stage, Miss Merle Mercier."

A roaring applause began as Johnny watched the small woman walk out from backstage and take her place in front of the band. She was a spectacle. She knew that no one was here to listen to her sing. They merely wanted to be able to say they had seen the "child bride" murderess in the flesh. Johnny thought he could see a sliver of disgust in her icy blue eyes but she disguised it with a sly smile.

The band begun to play and she began to sing.

_All you sinners drop everything, Everything  
Let the melody and the harmony ring, Let it ring  
Life arms up to Heaven and sing, Ring-a-ding  
Sing you sinners, woncha sway n' swing, What a thing_

Johnny knew the song, _Sing You Sinners_, he'd heard it many times before. Boy was she cheeky, he thought. Here she was, going to trial for murder, surrounded by sinners and she was calling them out, telling them to stand tall. She was definitely cheeky but one thing he had to give to her, she could sing better than any dame he'd ever heard. He sat there, entranced by her every move, every note. She wore a silver flapper dress that shimmered in the stage lighting as she swayed to the music. The curls of her hair bounced with the beat and diamond chandelier earrings hung down her slim neck, grazing her shoulders. She sang a few more tunes before she actually addressed the crowd.

"Thank you so much, you are darlings! I'm going to sing one more song for you wonderful people and it goes out to all the lovers out there who are missing that somebody special," she smiled sweetly but the audience laughed at the irony of the situation. She had expected this and let the grin turn devilish. It was gone the next moment when the band resumed a slow beat.

_Pack up all my care and woe,  
Here I go,  
Singing low,  
Bye bye blackbird,  
Where somebody waits for me,  
Sugar's sweet, so is she,  
Bye bye Blackbird_

He couldn't believe it and wasn't sure he could stand to listen to her sing. Her voice could make angels cry and here she was, breaking Johnny's heart with his song, his and Billie's. Before he knew it, she was done and everyone hooted and hollered their appreciation. She blew kisses to the audience and then turned and walked off the stage. She did not return to her cousin's table until a half hour later. She had changed into a red dress that was similar to her stage costume and the decadent earrings were replaced by small pearls.

She went straight to Frankie and gave him a kiss on each cheek, her red painted lips distracting Johnny all the while.

"Merle, sweets," Frankie began, "You remember Mr. Lawrence."

Merle turned to Johnny, "Of course."

She walked over to him and kissed his two cheeks as well. She smelled of orange blossoms and if he was correct, opium.

"Mr. Lawrence, it is a pleasure to see you again," she smiled and took his arm, leading him away from the table and prying ears.

"Please, Jack," he replied.

"Jack," she smiled as she leaned towards him almost near his ear and whispered, "I would like to apologize for being so rude at the courthouse the other day. I owe you my gratitude for your help with my case."

He pulled back, a bit uncomfortable with their closeness, "don't mention it."

There was something familiar about this girl, she reminded him of someone. The band struck up once again. It had been ages since he'd danced; the last time had been the night he met Billie. Suddenly he held out his hand to her.

"You wanna dance?"

She looked mildly surprised but gave him a, "why not?"

She took a quick sip of whatever was in her cousin's glass, handed it back to him and took Johnny's hand. He led her out to the dance floor and they fell into step with the other pairs. They didn't speak for a while, just swayed back and forth. Finally Johnny decided to break the ice.

"So, Merle Mercier, where do you get a name like that?"

"From my parents, I suppose."

"So your daddy was French, how does the Wallace family come into play?"

She leaned away and gave him a hard look, "My mama was Irish, okay? Most men don't like that."

_My mama's a Menominee Indian okay? Most men don't like that._

It echoed through his head. Wasn't that almost exactly what Billie had told him? Wasn't this the same scene? The dark hair, icy blue eyes, the red dress and those scarlet lips, the dance they shared. For Johnny it was reliving one of the best nights of his life and he had no idea how to answer back accept –

"I ain't like most men," he had no idea he had said it until he saw the look on her face soften.

"Oh, I've noticed that," she replied.

He let out a sigh of relief; at least she hadn't listed off her prior professions to him, just as Billie had before he'd whisked her away from all the mediocrity of her mundane life. Of course Merle wasn't leading a mundane life as a member of the biggest crime family on the east coast. And there was the issue that she was out on bail after confessing to murdering her husband in self-defense.

"So, Merle, what kind of name is Merle?"

"It's French," she shrugged her shoulders.

"Yeah but, why Merle? What does it mean?" he pried.

"You heard Frankie back at the jail, it means blackbird," her eyes looked up to him to see a look of sadness.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He stepped away, halting the waltz they had been enjoying.

"Yes," he choked out, "I just think I need some air."

He left the dance floor quickly and made his way back over to the door. He stood outside for a few minutes but the heat didn't help the way he was feeling. He was confused and a little upset. God had played him a cruel hand. Here he was, missing the one girl who ever made him feel special, feel alive, and this younger, smaller imitation of her had come along just to rub his nose in the fact that he could not have his Billie by his side.

He knew he had to return to Frankie. They were already suspicious of him. If he disappeared, he was sure they'd go snooping into his life and discover his real identity. He reached up and smoothed a hand through his hair, then straightened out his jacket. He held his head high as he knocked on the door and the little man let him through. When he reached Frankie's table, he saw that two chairs had been added: One was empty and obviously for him and in the other, right next to it was Merle. She gave him a quick glance as he sat down but instantly returned to her conversation with Bill Dwyer, whom she affectionately referred to as "Uncle Billy."

Johnny felt a little out of place so he snapped his fingers and ordered a drink from the waitress. She was back in a flash. As he took a sip, Frankie leaned over to him.

"She's a firecracker, isn't she?" he said motioning to Merle.

"She sure is uh, something," Johnny replied with a slight smile.

"After we get her off the hook I'm planning on bringing her into the _family business_," he winked, "she's smarter than most of my brothers and we need a pretty young thing like her."

"I'm sure she will do just fine," Johnny felt awkward. He never felt women should be involved with their type of business. He had broken his own rule and look what had happened? Billie was in jail and she wasn't even involved in the actual jobs. As far as Johnny was concerned, she had been an innocent caught up in a dirty world. He blamed himself everyday for tarnishing her purity.

Raised voices brought him back to earth as he heard Merle argue with her uncle.

"– and I think John Dillinger was by far the best man in the business."

"Don't _blow your wig _(get excited) over him honey, he's in a _Chicago overcoat _(coffin) six-feet-under and he ain't comin' back," Bill replied to his visibly upset niece.

"So it's true?" the man known as Dan O'Leary spoke up, "John Dillinger is really dead?"

"Don't you read the paps, kiddo?" Bill asked, "Those G-men shot him down. I heard he didn't give'em much of a fight either."

Merle stood up from her seat, "Those rotten bastards got him from behind! They didn't give him a chance to fight. Those crumbs."

"Sounds to me, Blackbird," Frankie began, "that you might have a thing for Mr. Dillinger."

Merle blushed at her cousin's insinuation, "The only thing I have to say is that John Dillinger was a modern day Robin Hood."

Johnny smiled to himself and picked up his glass to take another sip.

"Ya," Bill started to laugh, "'Cept the only poor he gave to was that whore in the red dress!"*

The table was shocked when the glass broke in Johnny's hand, shattered to pieces.

"Shit!" he cried.

Instantly Merle grabbed her napkin and cleaned his palm with it gently, wiping the blood that was already seeping from a deep cut. She started to pick the small shards of glass from the wound but he ripped his hand from her grasp.

"I can do it," he sneered at her.

Everyone at the table fell silent, shocked at his changed mood. Johnny realized this and put on a smile.

"Sorry gentlemen, Miss," he nodded at Merle who was sitting there with a confused look on her face, "but I think I'm going to go home and clean this up properly."

He wrapped the napkin around his injured hand and grabbed his hat with the other.

He tipped it towards Merle, "It was nice meeting you all."

He turned and made to walk away but was stopped by Frankie.

"You must join us again, maybe next Saturday?"

Johnny smiled slyly, "I'll be here."

He turned back and the smile faded from his face as he walked out of the building and into the warm night air.

He was half way down the street when he heard someone running up behind him.

"Jack! Jack! Mr. Lawrence!" someone called out.

It took him a second to remember that that was his name now. He was no longer John Dillinger. He swung around to see Merle barreling down the street with her shoes in one hand and the bottom of her dress in another. He stopped and let her catch up with him.

She took a deep breath and stopped right in front of him.

"Where are you going now?" she asked.

"Why do you want to know?" he replied.

She grabbed onto his arm for balance and slid one shoe on her left and the other on her right. She was still more than a foot shorter than him but it helped her look him in the eyes easier.

"I'll walk with you."

"And once I'm home what will you do? Walk back down Beacon Street after midnight on your own? I don't think so. I will walk you back to the club," he grabbed her arm and began to pull her back in the direction they had both come from.

"I don't want to go back there," she argued.

"Well you certainly aren't coming with me," he let out an exasperated sigh.

"Why not?"

"Because a young woman like yourself should not be out and about this time of night and also, I don't want you to," he spat.

"Oh I think you do," she smiled and he stopped to look over at her.

"And why is that?"

"Because," she paused and her grin widened to the size of a Cheshire cat, "I know who you are."

* * *

**History Note:**

***Borsalino: A type of fedora that Al Capone was known to wear.**

***Bill Dwyer was a mobster from New York. There is no evidence he was related to the Wallace family or that he was in Boston.**

***Danny O'Leary was from mobster Philadelphia. Again, there is no evidence that he visited Boston.**

***Danny Walsh was from Providence* and reportedly died before my story began however there were rumors he had moved away and changed his name. There is no evidence that he chose the alias Tommy Donalds.**

***Whore in the red dress – It was widely believed at the time that Billie had betrayed John Dillinger and she became known in the media as "The Woman in the Red Dress." When Bill refers to "the whore in the red dress," he is referring to Billie.**

**A/N: Thanks to linalove, filmgirl13 and xBelekinax for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?**

**Tinkerbellxo**


	8. Mister Mystery

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**A/N: No long apologies for my ridiculously long absence. Just know that I am sorry, dear readers, and that I will try harder to update on a regular basis from now on. Without further ado, chapter seven of **_**Hello, Blackbird . . .**_

_**

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****Chapter Seven**_

**Mister Mystery**

The first thing that came to Johnny's mind after this Merle dame claimed she knew who he _really _was?

_It was about damn time. _

He hadn't changed his physical appearance one bit and though the front page pictures were somewhat grainy, he was beginning to doubt his reputation. He had been declared Public Enemy #1, not even Capone could claim that title. And here he was in a big city surrounded by people who were in the same line of business as he had been, and they didn't recognize him. He was grateful for small favors but it was becoming a little insulting. However, he wasn't willing to give up his identity just yet.

She stood there, staring him down. Though there was fire in her eyes he could see her muscles were tensed, betraying the confident demeanor she was trying to convey.

"I know who you are," she repeated in a somewhat shaky voice.

This was the first time she appeared human to him. Before she was like a porcelain doll: steely and not to be touched. Now his identity could be compromised which should have made him feel threatened. But finally he felt like he had the upper hand and it thrilled him that the tables seemed to be turning. If she really did know who he was, she wouldn't turn him in because she wouldn't want to be seen associating with a famous bank robber.

Of course her family ran one of the biggest Boston operations so something like sharing a dance with one of the FBI's most wanted might not be as detrimental to her case as he thought. He just hoped that if he played his cards right he could keep the status quo in his favor.

"And who exactly am I darlin'?" he smiled slyly and walked towards her with his hands in his pockets, daring her to continue.

She took a deep breath, "You're John Dillinger."

"John Dillinger is dead," he replied.

"He's not dead," a sudden rise of confidence surged within her and she walked right up to him, "I'm looking at him."

He chuckled quietly and took his cigarette case out of his coat pocket. Selecting one from it and inserting it between his lips, he let her hang on his every move. After he lit it with a match from the small book in his other pocket he offered her the lighted butt. She took it and enjoyed a long drag as she watched him repeat the process for himself.

He blew out a puff of smoke and then returned his attention to her, "Let's walk."

He turned and started off towards the common. She followed behind him, attempting to keep up with his wide gait. He stayed silent until they reached a secluded section of the common. The only person Merle could spot was a homeless man lying underneath a tree, his arms and legs spread out to cool down from the heat that was now making her sweat. Or was that her nerves?

"So, you're saying John Dillinger isn't dead?" he finally asked.

"You should know, you're John Dillinger," she answered.

"What makes you think I'm him?"

"Not only are you the spitting image of him, John Dillinger is invincible. He wouldn't let some G-men shoot him in the back. He's smarter than that," she paused and brought her hand up to poke him in the chest, "You're smarter than that."

He stayed silent and after a moment he turned and began to walk once again deeper into the Common. When he noticed she wasn't following, he turned back around and motioned for her to keep moving. She obeyed his non-verbal command.

"Do you know why this section of land is called Boston Common, Ms. Mercier?" he asked her as he gestured around them.

"It's a common meeting place?" she replied, unsure of where this was going.

"No," he answered simply.

She let out an exasperated sigh, "Why then, Mr. Mystery, is this called the Boston Common?"

"Hmmm," he stopped suddenly but didn't face her, "Mr. Mystery? I like it."

"Well? Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is this called the Boston Common?" she was annoyed now.

"They use to hang people here," he then turned to her, "people like you and me. Murderers, bank robbers, pirates."

His voice had turned dark and his eyes were even darker. There was a danger lurking behind those chocolate eyes and she began to fear for her safety when she noticed now there weren't even homeless people around to witness their exchange. Not that she expected they'd be any help, but if he were to attack her in some way, should hoped someone would hear her screams.

"They would hang them from these very trees," and she looked up to see a canopy of lush green hiding a starry night from her prying eyes.

"And then," he continued and she had no choice but to look back at him, "they would bury them in the ground without even a marker to remember the poor souls."

He looked down and shuffled at the dirt beneath his feet where grass had failed to grow.

"Charming story," she bit back sarcastically, "Do you tell it to all the girls or am I special?"

He just chuckled half-heartedly at her question.

She grew even more nervous, "I'm no murderer."

He looked up at her like he hadn't realized she had been there the entire time.

"You're right Ms. Mercier," he paused, "You're a murderess."

"What's the difference?" she asked.

"You'll get off scott-free."

She laughed bitterly at the irony of the situation. After all, he had procured her the best lawyer in the city to defend her. Why was he now accusing her of being a cold-blooded killer?

"It was self- defense. He was going to kill me so I killed him first," she started to walk away from him since she was scared of where this conversation was headed, "excuse me if I wasn't ready to die just yet."

She didn't even hear him come after her but knew he must have when she felt his hand clamp down on her shoulder and she shuddered at the touch. She quickly shoved it off and turned to stand squarely in front of him.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"You're the one who followed me out here. I'm wondering what it is that _you _want," he replied slyly.

"I want you to admit that you're John Dillinger."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest to appear stern. When he stayed silent she continued.

"I meant what I said back in that club. John Dillinger was a hero amongst criminals. He stole from the establishment, not the people. In my family you are taught to steal from the mouths of babes. In most families of our kind that's how it goes," she was trying to speak slowly, deliberately, "But John Dillinger had morals. There was a kindness beneath the fire in his eyes and I see that in yours as well."

She was met once again with the cry of the crickets.

"So please, tell me that you're him so I may believe that our type of business has some type of hope; that those who gave us a good name are not all dead. That I'm not left in the company of big-time crooks and dirty dealers."

"A pretty speech for someone so young," he smiled and she instantly felt her muscles relax.

"I'm older than I look," she returned the smile, "So, Mr. Mystery, care to give me your real name?"

"Even if I was John Dillinger, what would make me trust you with such information?"

"We could exchange secrets," she suggested.

"What kind of secrets? You're already wanted for murder."

"I could tell you how I got involved in this whole mess, and believe me it is a very revealing and interesting story that in the hands of the wrong person, would put my whole family and our operation in danger."

When he didn't answer her immediately she continued, "trust me when I say that the information I would give you is as damning to me, as revealing that you are John Dillinger would be to you."

He let out a long sigh, "Well, Ms. Mercier, I will meet you tomorrow, 10 a.m., on the bank of the Charles River at the bottom of the footbridge. You tell me yours I'll tell you mine."

And he walked away.

"Why not now?" she called after him.

"Merle doll," she heard from behind her and turned to see her cousin coming towards her.

"Merle what in the world are you doing out here all on your own?"

"I – uh," she started but he interrupted her.

"Let's get back to the party. Uncle Billy is killing me at cards and I need you to spot me a few bucks," he slurred.

She could now see from his awkward posture that he was drunk and wouldn't be much of an escort back to the gin mill. But looking around she realized her Mr. Mystery was long gone. Sighing lightly she took Frankie's arm and led him back to Copley Square. She spent the rest of the night, gambling, drinking and dancing but what clouded her mind was her morning appointment with the man who quite possibly was John Dillinger.

It was that thought that kept her from sleep, even long after her head hit the pillow.

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**History Note: Yes, the Boston Common was used as a common burial ground in American's early days for all sorts of seedy characters and, it is reported, some not so seedy. This chapter is dedicated to those who were wrongly accused and have been forgotten under the soil I have walked over countless times, poor souls. It was also used as a sort of pasture for grazing cows but that didn't really fit into my story so I left it out. But now you know!**

**A/N: Thanks to xBelekinax, linalove, RileyPoole'sLittleWhiskeyGirl and breeee1994 for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?**

**Tinkerbellxo**


	9. Secrets in the Sun

**Disclaimer: I do not own Public Enemies or any of its characters. I only claim the characters and story I create amongst these chapters. **

**A/N: God I'm awful at updates. **

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**Secrets in the Sun**

A large brimmed straw hat shaded Merle's eyes from the sun that was already high in the sky. She had been waiting for 10 minutes next to a bench right at the bottom of the footbridge. Her feet ached from the sweltering heat and from the long walk from her cousin's North End home in her heels. The trolley had been running slow and the last thing she wanted to do was be late for this meeting. She looked down at the bench, contemplating if it was clean enough to sit on in her ecru skirt and sleeveless navy silk blouse. Deciding not to take a chance, she lifted a gloved hand to check the time on her watch.

_10:07. _

He was late.

She took a deep breath. She was already nervous about this meeting, but now she wasn't even sure if he was going to show up. Her eyes scanned the area for the tenth time, hoping that somehow he had gotten by her and was lost amongst the crowds of people that had used the footbridge to begin their morning constitutional.

When she imagined having such a covert rendezvous, she pictured it like one of those film noirs she had become so taken with. Late night, business suits, red lipstick, a dark lounge or a dive bar, briefcases and hushed tones exchanging dangerous information. Much more romantic than the setting she found herself in now: sunshine, people riding bikes, children flying kites, straw hats, lounging on the grass and men launching their boats into the Charles. The only similarity was her rouge painted lips that now sat in a tight, terse line. It was definitely not what she pictured but all in all it didn't really matter, it just made it that more intimidating.

"Hello there," she heard from behind her and she jumped, falling off her heels and right into his arms.

He laughed and set her upright, "did I startle you?"

"You're late," she scolded him as she brushed herself off.

"Sorry little lady," he replied with a smile and she felt her heart flutter.

"You're not going to give me some excuse?"

"None to give; sorry to disappoint."

"Well, then, are you or are you not John Dillinger?"

"Whoa there darling," he said as he threw an arm around her shoulders and started to walk, "can we enjoy this beautiful day a little first? Then we can talk shop."

She allowed him to lead her down the path by the river. She found it humorous when she realized they looked very much the respectable couple together. No one had any idea that they were amongst a famous bank robber and, what did he call her last night? Oh yes, a murderess.

"So Miss Mercier, how did you sleep last night?"

"That is not a very appropriate question to ask," she balked.

"I'll take that as a 'not well,'" he replied noticing the slight bluish tinge to underneath her eyes.

She didn't respond and they walked in silence until they reached the boat house where he started to lead her over to the docks.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Let's take a ride," he said and then greeted the attendant renting out the boats.

After the exchange the older man extended a hand to Merle to help her into the boat. As she stepped down she looked back up to him.

"Thank you, sir," she said with a smile.

His eyes widened, "Hey, aren't you that bird who killed that big wig's son?"

Her smile dropped and she looked away in embarrassment. The move seemed almost uncharacteristic for her, Johnny thought, but he figured that maybe she wasn't as confident as she let on.

"Don't you have some bird poop or barnacles you have to go scrap off somewhere?" Johnny replied.

The man huffed in indignance, storming back down the docks and leaving the two of them alone.

Johnny took the two oars and began rowing away from the dock.

"Thanks for that," she said so quietly he wasn't even sure he heard right.

He just nodded.

They rowed out to the middle of the river. Merle found herself squinting from the sun that was reflecting off the cloudy blue water. Johnny handed her the dark glasses that until then, had been hanging from the collar of his shirt.

"What are these for?" she asked him as she took them in her hand.

"Sunglasses."

"I know what they are. I was asking why you were handing them to me."

"Thought they might help," he shrugged.

"Won't you need them?"

"I've got a hat."

"Well so do I," she went to hand them back.

"Put the glasses on pretty lady," he gave her a stern look, "you'll enjoy the view a lot better."

She did as he said and instantly felt her eyes relax.

"They suit you," he complimented.

"Thank you," she said, "for letting me borrow them."

"Oh you can keep those," he pulled at the oars, "I got another pair at home."

"I couldn't."

"You're not used to this are you darling?"

"What?"

"Being taken care of," he replied.

"You lent me a pair of sunglasses, and though they match my outfit," she smirked, "I would hardly consider that taking care of me."

"You know what I mean," he turned back to her and stared straight into her eyes, "you're not used to others paying attention to your needs."

"What would you know of _my needs_?" she purred. She knew he was trying to analyze her and she was going to try and throw him off the trail even if that meant appealing to his sensual side.

"I know that you're nothing but a pawn in your family's games and that's all you have been all your life."

She laughed bitterly, "I thought you wanted us to enjoy this beautiful day before we talked shop?"

"No time like the present," he smiled at her.

"You're right," she took a deep breath before she began; "you know how I told you last night that I was older than I looked?"

"Vaguely, yes," he encouraged her to continue.

"The newspapers say I'm 17, married at 13, right?"

He nodded wishing she would get to the point.

"I was actually born in 1912."

"Which would make you – "

"I just turned 22 in jail," she interrupted.

He took a moment to give her the once over. He had known there was something off about her the first time he saw her. Though her face was that of a porcelain doll's and she was slight in stature, her body was undeniably that of a woman's with a small waist and curvy physique.

"Why lie? How'd you get away with it?" he finally asked.

"My uncle, Frankie's father, got a tip that Harry Young was looking for a wife and everyone knew that just like his surname, he liked them young, very young," he could see her shudder.

"My parents were dead," she continued, "I was at the mercy of my uncle for taking me in after they perished in the Molasses Disaster* when I was six. Since I am the only girl in the family and I look younger than my years, well," she trailed off.

"They set the trap and you were the bait," he concluded.

"I was actually in love with another man and I had my suspicions that he was about to propose when I received my assignment," her voice became shaky.

"At first I had thought I could just trap Young, create the alliance between our families like my uncle wanted, and then move on with my life. But when Harry proposed to me after our third date and later that night wouldn't take no for an answer," she winced and he knew that she wasn't referring to the marriage proposal, "I knew that I had no other choice."

"I continued an affair with the man I loved for the first few months of my unhappy marriage to Harry," she frowned and it was obvious that she had fallen deep in thought, "until he was found underneath the Longfellow Bridge*, a single bullet through the heart."

"Who killed him?"

"Do you really have to ask?" she bit back, "I received a friendly visit from Frankie the next day. He said he just stopped by to see how I was doing and to let me know that if I was to repeat my indiscretions and jeopardize their hard work again that I might end up in the same predicament."

"You mean he threatened you?"

"It wasn't the first time, believe me. So I threw myself into my work, pretending to be a childish, nitwit of a trophy wife. I let him dress me up in frilly clothes in public and then I let him dress me in skimpy baby clothes at night."

Johnny's eyes widened at her admission.

"Oh yes," she noted his shock, "As I said he liked them young and he was quite off-color when it came to his bedroom behavior. I could show you the scars sometime."

He blushed slightly, he felt sorry from her but he couldn't help but be somewhat aroused at the thought of her in a heated, lustful exchange. It was just too bad it had had to be with a man like Young.

"But I didn't only receive scars from his carnal delights; he also enjoyed seeing me huddled in a corner with both eyes blacked out and a bloody lip after he'd come home from a night of heavy drinking at the club."

"Why are you telling me all this?" he asked her, somewhat in hopes that she would stop painting such a gruesome picture.

"Because I promised you I'd give you something that you could hold over me if you would confirm that you are John Dillinger."

"You don't even know if I'm Dillinger," he replied.

"You are John Dillinger, I just need to hear it from your lips," she stole a glance at his mouth and felt her stomach flip.

"So why did your uncle want this connection?"

"Why do you think? A joining of the largest mob family in Boston and the city's most prestigious banking firm -it's a match made in heaven. I had kept my father's last name so it wasn't until it was too late that the Youngs realized just who they were getting involved with. And a divorce would have been disgraceful."

She paused, "Besides I was already pregnant when we were married."

"Well where is the child now?"

She turned away, "The baby didn't it make through one of his rants. I miscarried and ended up in the hospital under the rouse that I had been mugged. I testified against a homeless man I had passed several times on my way to church and he was sent to jail for the crime. He died there a year later."

By now the two had rowed way down the river where few people had made it out to and she realized they were very much alone.

"And yet you seem close with your cousin, even after all he's forced upon you," he remarked somewhat disapprovingly.

"He's family," she replied.

"And selling his cousin to the highest bidder is what family does I guess," he said sarcastically.

"I didn't ask you for your sympathy and I certainly didn't meet you here so you could judge me for what I've done. I'm merely telling you this as a way to exchange information. Not only can you damn me to hell with everything I've just admitted to you, I've also put my family and our entire operation in danger. Shall I go on or are you finally willing to admit your true identity?"

"One more question," he started, "what do you plan to do once this whole mess is sorted?"

"You don't want to know if my family forced me to kill my husband?"

"No darling, I only want to know about you," he stopped rowing.

She sighed, "I don't know. For the first time my future is up in the air. I know Frankie is talking about bringing me into the business. But I think I have to lay low for a while."

"Why don't you take a trip?"

"Where would I go?"

"Name some place you've always wanted to see."

"Paris," she replied instantly.

"Let's go then."

She laughed and it was the first time he saw her genuinely smile since they had met up, "What, you mean you and me?"

"Why not?"

"Because," she began, "I don't know you."

"Of course you do darling," he replied with a self-satisfied smirk, "I'm John Dillinger."

* * *

**History Note: **

***The Molasses Disaster** happened in Boston's North End on January 15, 1919 after a large molasses storage tank burst at the Purity Distilling Company facility. A wave of what was the standard sweetener of the time rushed through the area's streets and took the lives of 21 people and injured 150. At the time the area was primarily made up of Irish immigrants which is what Merle's mother's family would have been. It wasn't until the 1920s and 30s that the Italians took over the area and made it into the mecca of incredible pasta and Italian pastry that it is today.

***The Longfellow Bridge **was opened in 1906 and it connects Beacon Hill in Boston to Cambridge's Kendall Square. It was named after Henry Wadsworth Longfellow who, in 1845, wrote about the West Boston Bridge in his poem, "The Bridge."

**A/N: Thanks to RileyPoole'sLittleWhiskeyGirl, xBelekinax, linalove, BlueEyedPisces and You cant rush science for reviewing and thanks to all my readers. Please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please?**

**Tinkerbellxo**


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